mad libber
I never intended to become a pawn of "Guestbook
Fever." I never intended to try to draw attention to anything on this
site or to add/change things based simply on popularity. Of course I
like to receive messages in the guestbook. But I'm surprised that
after making some significant recent updates to other areas of this
website and receiving no responses, I'm trying to garner attention for
said updates with this entry. Tsk tsk. That's something to think
about all on its own. On to the actual entry.
I wrote this "mad libs"-esque piece while driving to
Chicago as a game to help pass the time.
The Original
When I was a child, I always wanted to fly. At night
I'd dream that I was a superhero and I'd be fast, brave, and handsome.
When I got older I always wanted to swim like a fish in
the sea. I could just imagine being able to touch the rough corral. I
knew that if I could be free to swim wherever I chose I would explore
every nook and cranny in every body of water. And I wouldn't have to deal
with the fights and difficulties of the human race.
Now I just wish I could sleep like a cat. Nothing
sounds quite as good as being able to fall into a half-conscious state at
any time.
I guess that over time my dreams have become less grand.
Maybe when I'm 80 I'll dream that I can chew my own food.
The Frankensteined
When I was a sicky-poo, I always wanted to blow my nose. In the middle of the night
I'd vomit that I was a noseblower and I'd be snotty, phlegmy, and extremely feverish.
When I got sicker I sleepily wanted to peepee like chunks in
the thermometer. I could just infect being able to sneeze on the contagious, soaking-wet tissue. I
knew that if I could be crusty to nauseate wherever I chose I would wipe
every drool and spit in every body of mucous. And I wouldn't have to deal
with the cold-medicine and cough-drops of the human race.
Now I just wish I could drip like a germ. Nothing
sounds quite as gross as being able to pass-out into a half-conscious discharge at
any time.
I guess that over time my drugs have become less moist.
Maybe when I'm 223 I'll dream that I can hack my own regurgitated orange-juice.
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